


Nothing but His T-Shirt On

by ConsultingWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost Hinted Relationship, Gen, John Wearing Sherlock's Clothes, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, Sad Fluffiness (Is that even possible? Eh....it is now), Sad John is Sad, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is trying to pick up the broken pieces after Sherlock's death and move on, but honestly he'd rather just stay in bed with nothing but the man's t-shirt on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing but His T-Shirt On

**Author's Note:**

> So, my first Sherlock fanfic. Constructive/helpful comments are adored. Also, pointing out grammar mistakes is appreciated, because I wrote this in the "notes" app on my Iphone in less then an hour. 
> 
> Based of the song T-Shirt by Shontell, and honestly, listening to it while reading makes the fic make more sense http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87nMGOleI-E

John looked at himself in the mirror, red button down—freshly pressed—black slacks, and a pair a recently polished dress shoes. He looked over his image carefully before glancing at his watch then at the door. 

Lestrade had texted during his lunch break and invited him out for a pint that evening and John had accepted. Thought he might even be able to pick up a number—or a few—when they got to the bar. What a bloody terrible idea, he couldn't do this.

With shaking hands he reached up and gripped his hair, he couldn't do it. What had made him think he could, when he couldn't even move out of this damnable flat? With a sigh he pulled his hands from his now ruffled hair and frantically began to unbutton his shirt with his right hand—almost pulling one of the buttons off—while he texted Lestrade with the other 

**I can't do this. Sorry.  
 **JW** **

What the hell was he doing? He felt so stupid, trying to dress up and go out; he couldn’t even remember how to do that alone anymore. 

When the shirt was off he set to work on the shoes and slacks, tossing his phone carelessly on the couch. He only calmed from his frantic state when he stood completely naked in the living room. 

Nearly desperate strides carried him the two steps from where he stood to His chair—the one no one, not even John would dare to sit in—and gently, almost reverently, picked up the button up they lay neatly folded across the back. 

The Doctor slid the shirt over his shoulders and buttoned it up with soft, flexible fingers—so different from the unyielding harshness which the hands had previously shown the red shirt when they tore it from his body—and then shuddered in contentment as the soft purple silk fell against his still-panic-flushed skin. 

Sighing he raised his right hand and pushed the sleeve that was much too long for him back and simply rested the hand over his heartbeat; wishing that he wasn't the one wearing the shirt, wishing that it wasn't his own heartbeat his was feeling thumping rhythmically against his palm, but someone else's.

He dropped his hand, shoulders sagging as he did, and made his way into a bedroom that wasn't his, to sleep in expensive sheets that weren't his—but were beginning to smell more like him and less like their original owner after over a year, much to the soldier's distress—sighing again, more heavily this time, as the shirt’s tails brushed his bare thighs. 

Later, when the sun had long set, curled in the bed by himself John would wonder how he'd come to this, how he'd gone from a brave soldier, a fierce Captain, and a good Doctor to this. This broke hearted man with nothing but His t-shirt on.


End file.
